A speculative consideration of Lars von Trier and Antichrist

FEW FILMS are easier to scoff at than Antichrist, the contentious new film by the self-proclaimed bad boy of Danish cinema, Lars von Trier. Itís so easy in fact, that film commentators (confident in the safety of numbers) are tripping over themselves in the rush to pour scorn on what might be a better film than hasty critics think. Mind you, who can blame them? Antichrist is full of moments that could be (and generally have been) described as sophomoric and pretentious, but as anyone familiar with von Trier knows, thatís par-for-the-course when it comes to the work of the wilful Danish provocateur.

I wouldnít call myself a fan, but I have tended to give Lars the benefit of the doubt, even though some of his films havenít always appealed. The Kingdom (1997) is too farcical for me, and I didnít get to the end of Epidemic (1987), although some critics rate them, especially the latter, which is thought to be a key-work to understanding the methodology and philosophic intent of von Trierís simultaneously self-aggrandising and self-deprecating cinema. The Element of Crime (1984) was the first von Trier film I saw. I liked it, but my interest waned before the end. Medea (1988) was more to my taste, and while it may not be his best film (an arbitrary judgment at best), it showed that he has an eye for poetic images and formal restraint. There is a parallel between Medea and Antichrist in that they share the theme of children sacrificed to the selfish appetites of adults, which, if what he says about his childhood is true, must resonate deeply with von Trier. Zentropa (a Kafkaesque attack on imperialism and complicity) has thematic meat on its bones, but itís too showy and populist to satisfactorily serve its underlying ideas. Itís technically impressive, but ultimately irritating.

ĎThe Golden Heart Trilogyí, Breaking the Waves (1996), The Idiots (1998) and Dancer in the Dark (2000), revealed von Trier to be an auteur with a very clear set of thematic concerns (and an infamous taste for provocation). While the influence of Tarkovsky, Dreyer and Bergman is evident, von Trierís own voice is also developing in these films, characterised by a desire to confront presuppositions of all hues (his included). This was very apparent in Dogville (2003), an allegorical consideration of hypocrisy, power, justice and mercy that was less didactic than it could have been due to its potentially far-reaching complexity and ambiguity. The trilogy (and some of the films that followed) grappled what could be called the affliction of belief, and in this respect, his films are reminiscent of Ingmar Bergman. Also like Bergman, von Trierís protagonists are often women with whom he obviously identifies (or not so obviously considering the flack he gets for his supposed misogyny), but where Bergmanís beef with The Big Guy could be described as the angst of an atheist, von Trierís films seem to be the work of a theist with an aversion to religion.

Not one to shy away from contentious attention, von Trier has said that everything written about him is a lie. He might be more defensive than he lets on, just as his provocations could mask a self-doubting moral conservatism. His parents apparently opposed the idea of Ďstuntingí a childís natural development with boundaries and discipline, leaving von Trier with identity and relationship issues; a propensity for self-doubt and depression; and an abiding need for the sort of parental influence he never had. All of this personal angst feeds into his work, again much like Bergman, while his cinematic heroes (including von Stroheim, from whom he borrowed the Ďvoní, Welles, Kubrick and others) have become, in a sense, de-facto parents and elders.

Antichrist is an allegory apparently drawn from von Trierís depression and therapy, so the central characters are not literal in a conventional narrative sense, but represent two conflicting sides of a single entity: namely, von Trier. Actually, itís a three-sided entity with the crucial inclusion of their 6-year-old son, Nick, who falls from a window to his death while his parents Ďindulgeí in sex in the opening flashback sequence. Nick is von Trierís inner child (or Id), allowed to perish (metaphor) while the two adult sides of his psyche (Ego and Superego) pursue their worldly self-centredness. The characters in von Trierís films are often avatars for his themes. Men broadly represent the severity of the world: reason, intransigence, condemnation, authority, patriarchal domination (something von Trier is at war with in his films, and no doubt within himself), while women are the locus of sacrifice, redemption, suffering, transcendence, and the battle with patriarchy. When ĎHeí (the rational, unemotional male side of the entity Ė played by Willem Defoe) gets too close for psychological comfort, ĎSheí (the self-protective, emotional female side Ė played by Charlotte Gainsbourg) acts to destroy that threat.

An important underlying theme is the notion of transcending Ďreasoní (an allegorical male trait) and Ďself-protective fear and denialí (allegorically female). Problems occur when viewers confuse these allegorical traits with what they assume to be von Trierís personal gender politics. The notion of the Ďpunishment of womení in his work is not only the outworking of themes dealing with patriarchal oppression, but it juxtaposes the brutality of the world (power, money, hatred, etc) with the spiritual (forgiveness, love, transcendence, etc). While thereís nothing original about this, it seems (judging by reviews) that many people simply donít get it. Those who do tend to dismiss it as (to quote their oft-used words) banal or sophomoric, as if itís all somehow beneath them, or as if someone just farted in church (which, when you think about it, should perhaps happen more often). Films like Antichrist are deliberately unsubtle, forcing the viewer to confront things about the world (and themselves) that they must either commit to seeing through, walk away from, or (as is often the case) attempt to discredit.

If viewers become engaged with von Trierís stories at the expense of his themes, things can get messy. A telling example is American critic Roger Ebertís reaction to Dogville, where he said that American citizens would never chain a helpless woman to a post so that the town could rape her. Thank God he cleared that up! Allegorically speaking Ebertís statement is debatable (joke), but it illustrates how easily von Trierís films have been taken literally by critics and audiences alike, as if they have forgotten (or perhaps arenít aware) that cinema is a figurative art form. von Trier fashions his stories around his themes (guilt, mercy, truth, deception, enmity, compassion, redemption; etc), so accusations of Ďsophomoric banalityí and Ďmisogynyí could stem from literal rather than allegorical readings. It suggests that less of us know how to read a movie these days. In certain quarters, subtext is a dirty word. In others, it appears to have no meaning at all.

ďIf you can get past the histrionics of Antichrist (a film about madness that literally goes berserk) and your conflicted feelings about it, you might notice how beautifully made it is. Itís also funny, and some of the laughs are intentional. In the end, it comes down to how much slack one is prepared to cut this petulant show off who just happens to have a disagreeable way of pointing at disagreeable truths.Ē

An obvious fact that emerges in criticism of von Trierís work is how rarely the religious component is mentioned. Tarkovsky and von Trier have more in common than camera placement. Their themes are similar, but where the contemplative Tarkovsky generally emphasises Divine Omnipotence, von Trier grapples with theological contradictions. While Antichrist may seem to have little in common with the great cinematic canon, it is nevertheless an attempt to examine personal and universal truths with spiritual and artistic sincerity. It goes without saying that it has little (some might say none) of the high-art subtlety or grace of Dreyer or Tarkovsky, but nor should it. This is von Trierís vision. Itís his angst, his self-loathing, and his spiritual plea. The filmís excess reflects the disgust of the howling child within, and his longing for spiritual and psychological Ďhealthí. Some call the film meretricious and dishonest, or an audience-baiting prank, and while there might be an element of truth to that, Antichrist might be von Trierís most revealing and honest film. While that doesnít make it a great film, it behoves film commentators to take it more seriously than most have, or to at least do so with a little less self-congratulatory condescension.

If itís true that von Trier forced himself to write a number of pages a day as part of his therapy, then Antichrist parallels Bergmanís Persona (1966) as a work of art that (as Bergman put it) Ďsaved its authorí. Both films are a response to the brutality of life and personal implosion. Both are two-actor films in which each character is one half of a single entity: the emotionally reactive patient half, and the more logical healer half; and both resolve with a merging of the characters and an equally ambiguous sense of transcendence. Another influence may be Benjamin Christensenís Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922), a Danish masterwork that caused outrage in its day for its graphic criticism of the historical Religion-endorsed oppression of women. The thesis that She (Gainsbourg) is writing is called ĎGynicideí, a word used in feminist writing to describe the self-destruction of women oppressed by patriarchy. In terms of how to read the subtextual meaning of Antichrist, von Trier couldnít give the viewer a bigger clue.

As Iíve already indicated, the misogyny von Trier has been accused of may stem from a misreading of the allegorical suffering of his female characters, but this is complicated by his comments about the dysfunctional relationship with his parents, especially his mother. In this light, one has to concede that he might suffer from misogyny, but more likely as part of a deeper misanthropic condition Ė narcissism. Self-hatred; an inability to give or receive love due to fear of abandonment and betrayal; a tendency to vent anger and contempt on those least able to defend themselves (or unlikely to pose any significant intellectual or emotional threat), are a few characteristics of narcissism. To the narcissist, the subject of their attack is a kind of de-facto self, deserving scorn for either being too much like them or inferior to them. The narcissist abuses others when what they really want is to be free of self-loathing. Given what von Trier has said about his childhood, this might shed light on the conflict at the heart of his films, particularly Antichrist.

The title could be self-referential in terms of describing someone unable to submit to the Authorial influence of God. It could also describe someone who self-heals (through therapy), and is therefore anti-Christ in the sense that they have no need for the Love and Healing that is (within a religious context) the reserve of God. So He (Dafoe) is anti-Christ in that he overcomes spiritual despair without God. All well and good, but the fact is, many of those seeing the film for the first (and probably only) time might not get this. If they do, von Trierís heavy-handedness might encourage them to find it risible, and to dismiss a brave and bold attempt by one of cinemaís most searching auteurs to tackle the essential brokenness of human nature.

If you can get past the histrionics of Antichrist (a film about madness that literally goes berserk) and your conflicted feelings about it, you might notice how beautifully made it is. Itís also funny, and some of the laughs are intentional. In the end, it comes down to how much slack one is prepared to cut this petulant show off who just happens to have a disagreeable way of pointing at disagreeable truths. When a sneering prankster holds a mirror before our carefully concealed nature, itís not surprising that our first reaction might be to send him packing. Frankly, any filmmaker who gets booed at Cannes must be doing something right. Dreyerís Gertrud (also about narcissistic dysfunction?) had to endure jeering critical attacks when it screened at Cannes back in 1964. Who now would deny that itís one of Dreyerís (and cinemaís) greatest achievements?

Of course, the hysteria, hyperbole and downright unpleasantness of Antichrist is likely to ensure that it will never achieve the critical re-evaluation and canonical elevation of Gertrud, but once the hysteria, hyperbole and downright unpleasantness of the critical response subsides, considered appraisals ought to emerge. One need only look at the often unfairly maligned The Idiots to recognise the seeds that gave root to Antichrist. That too was heavy-handed and inflammatory, but with the exception of Medea, what von Trier film isnít? At least he challenges the presuppositions, expectations and limits of cinema, even if (as some argue) his motivation is calculated or disingenuous. Like it or loathe it, Antichrist is packed with cinematic conviction, and is a forceful, insightful example of what auteurist cinema is about. One doesnít have to like it to admit that it has every right to be what it is, and that its ideas (regardless of how tasteful they are or not) have the potential to say more to us (and about us) than most of the Euro-trifles that pass for cinematic art today.

And yet, to be completely honest, I find it difficult to equate von Trier with the best of world cinema. Despite this attempt to defend him and his new film, I donít see him in the same light as his cinematic heroes, or with provocateurs such as Haneke, Dumont, Noť and the like. Like all narcissists (and donít get me wrong, he may not be one), Lars could be (if he isnít already) his own worst enemy. One need only look at 35 Shots of Rum, Paper Soldier, Birdsong, Jeanne Dielman, Still Walking, Wendy and Lucy, 24 City, Modern Life, Eccentricities of a Blond Hair Girl, and any one of a host of films from this yearsí New Zealand International Film Festival to spot the difference. The missing ingredient (unsurprisingly perhaps) might simply be love.

Comments

Hi Steve, I really like your review. But I'm still not convinced of the merits of this film (I think you'll find a large numbr of positive reviews for the film, possibly more so than negative). You mention critics don't know how to read subtext anymore, and if I may defend myself, I think part of my issue is that I don't find the allegorical elements or the subtext of Antichrist particularly interesting. Your psychoanalytic reading is compelling, but I'm not sure using socially constructed (and socially specific) gender stereotypes as allegorical subjects of suffering or some comment on universal 'truths' is particularly illuminating. And the end result of this allegory is simply self-loathing. But that might simply be my bias against psychoanalysis as a whole! (e.g. it equates socially constructed norms as being some sort of 'innate' human psychological trait/conflict - plus, as a theory it's a bit too speculative for my liking and seems to have no scientific/empirical basis).

And if the male/female dichotomy are simply about his own state of mind, what purpose does the throwing in the gynicide thesis serve? (That gynicide occurred because men's minds like his suppress the irrational, emotional part? Or that this is inevitable? The film hardly opposes this suppressing or convinces me of this 'universality'). By gendering the behaviour and as a result basically upholding the stereotypes which led to gynicide/patriarchal oppression, von Trier is hardly being subversive. The film to me just doesn't come close to the resonance of Persona or Dreyer's films - films which don't have to resort to stereotypes/sexualisation of suffering to critique society.

I hope I haven't misread your position, which I hope I haven't done because it's a great read!

Hi Brannavan. Thanks for taking the time to comment. Iím chuffed you enjoyed it. I donít think youíve misread my position at all, in fact, we might be more in agreement than not. The allegorical/subtextual aspects of Antichrist donít interest me Ďthatí much either, but that matters little when it comes to critiquing the work, or putting it into some sort of context. von Trierís use of allegory (even if it is heavy-handed) is no reason to diss the man or his film (although itís easy to see why people do). The fact that many viewers arenít even aware of subtext (let alone given to fathoming it) is reason enough to defend the man for working in that mode. (It seems that Dogtooth is going over many heads too.) The allegory in Antichrist does not (as I see it) result in self-loathing but a step towards self-acceptance.

Whether von Trier upholds patriarchal stereotypes or uses them as a form of shorthand is a matter of opinion, but by equating gynicide with Ďminds like hisí, youíre assuming he is a misogynist and reading his work accordingly. Iím not convinced that he is on the basis of the Ďdepictioní of misogyny in his films, particularly when (as I read them) his films seem to be a howl against patriarchal-derived forms of oppression (and extending from that, fascism), not only of the past, but as it still exists. His films seem to me to be conflicted allegories that attempt to openly address emotional, psychological and spiritual repression, essentially the unfathomable proclivity humankind has for enmity. Nevertheless, heís regularly accused of the very thing he seems to me to be expressing revulsion over. Such accusations may not be unfounded, but we can only speculated about that.

von Trier makes it easy to dislike his films, and (for some) him with it. As I said at the end of the piece, I canít quite bring myself to equate him with his (and my) cinematic heroes or the best of his contemporaries. Frankly, I donít have a lot invested in him. Heís not a cinematic hero of mine, so I donít feel bound to defend him, make excuses for him, or convince people of his greatness, but I often think he is unfairly maligned. Sometimes I wonder if this has something to do with the very human tendency of attacking those who point their finger too accurately. Probably not, but it is possible. The way he depicts such things can be embarrassing in its arty earnestness, but I donít think his films are silly or that he is a fool. The man knows how to make films, and heís capable of making great ones. Iíll give any director the time day who can put the fox (particularly a talking one) among the dozing and bewildered chickens.
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Posted: 19.09.09 @ 20:10:48

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